


One Simple Truth

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:53:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Grantaire Ship Week. Grantaire and Combeferre have a fight about Christmas and their relationship, and Combeferre realizes he's made a terrible mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Simple Truth

**Author's Note:**

> I love Christmas, and I love angst, and I love angst that eventually turns into fluffy fluff, so I figured this pretty well fits the bill.
> 
> Also I wanted to try and write Combeferre as having flaws of some variety, so let me know what you think of that.
> 
> Title is from 'N Sync's "The Only Gift":
> 
> "For in my wishful heart  
> There was one simple truth  
> The only gift I wanted was you"
> 
> Usual disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. The Christmas Elves have not yet come around to correct all my mistakes.

“You brought me coffee,” Grantaire said after he opened the front door, only slightly suspicious as he reached up to kiss Combeferre, brushing some of snowflakes off his coat. “You only bring me coffee when you want to talk.”

Combeferre smiled, a little grimly. “We need to talk. May I come in?”

Though Grantaire stepped aside to let him in, his smile fell slightly. “That depends. Is this the kind of talk where it seems upsetting at first but ultimately is fine, or the kind of talk that really is just plain upsetting?”

“That probably depends,” Combeferre said dryly, following Grantaire into the kitchen. “Have we discussed your feelings on Christmas?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him as he sat down at the kitchen table, sipping from the coffee Combeferre had brought him. He glanced pointedly around at the Christmas decorations that covered just about every inch of free space on the walls and the mantle, including the skinny tree propped in the corner with a ragtag assortment of ornaments on its branches, before switching his gaze back to Combeferre. “I mean, I’d say I’m a little partial to it. Why? I thought we were going to spend Christmas together and then go to my parents’ the day after for leftovers.”

Combeferre sighed, looking down at the table. “Right. About that. My plans…they may have changed.” He looked back up at Grantaire, features blank, almost unemotional, the way they got when he was detaching himself from unpleasant news. It was Grantaire’s least favorite thing about Combeferre, the way he got over analytical and unemotional when Grantaire would much rather rage and cry and scream. Normally they tempered each other well, but sometimes…Sometimes Grantaire would let himself long for a proper screaming match.

“What’s changed with your plans?” Grantaire asked, keeping his tone as light as possible.

Shrugging, Combeferre said softly, “My mom called. She and my dad want me to come home for Christmas.”

“Oh.” Silence fell between them for a long moment as Grantaire played with the lid of his coffee cup, biting his lip. “Well, that’s ok, too. My parents won’t mind too much. We can go to your parents for Christmas, and then go to my parents when we get back. Knowing my mom, she’ll keep some leftovers for us anyway. She doesn’t think I eat enough.”

Combeferre managed a small smile. “That’s because you  _don’t_  eat enough. Coffee, alcohol and cigarettes do not a balanced diet make.”

Grantaire cracked a smile as well, waving a dismissive hand at the old argument. “At least during the Christmas season I add peppermint in.” They lapsed into silence again until Grantaire asked tentatively, “So that works, right? Christmas with your folks, and then afterwards at mine?”

“It’s…a little more complicated than that.”

The smile fled as quickly as it had appeared on Grantaire’s face. “Complicated in what way?” At Combeferre’s continued silence, Grantaire sighed heavily. “Look, just tell me. The coffee’s already softened the blow. Your parents don’t want to meet me, is that it? They don’t approve of your slacker loser artist boyfriend, so they don’t want you to bring me home.”

“That’s not it at all,” Combeferre said, almost sharply. “You are the furthest thing from a slacker or loser.”

Grantaire leaned forward. “Then what is it?”

Combeferre’s eyes met his for a brief moment. “They don’t know about you. At all. I haven’t…I didn’t tell them. About us.”

Grantaire stared at him, undisguised hurt written across his features. “Oh.” The single syllable stood out heavily between them as Grantaire looked at Combeferre and Combeferre looked at anything besides Grantaire. “So…why?”

Combeferre looked up, surprised. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m fucking furious.” The calm edge to Grantaire’s voice showed that he wasn’t lying; he was barely holding back from unrestrained fury. “I just want to hear your explanation for why before I kick you out of my apartment and tell you I never want to see you again. We’ve been dating for over six months, Ferre, and I think that would deserve at least a cursory mention to your parents.”

Combeferre at least had the good sense to look ashamed. “Please don’t…don’t misunderstand. I didn’t want to tell my parents right away because telling them about a boyfriend is a very big step for me, one I’ve only taken once or twice before. And by the time I realized we were serious enough to want to tell my parents, it was too close to Christmas, and that’s…” He trailed off for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. “Christmas is a big deal in my family, and normally reserved solely for spouses. My brother didn’t bring his wife to Christmas until they were engaged. I haven’t even brought Enjolras to Christmas in all the years I’ve known him. And it would be a bigger step for us than I think we’re ready to take after only six months.”

Grantaire’s grip tightened on his coffee cup. “And you didn’t think to have this conversation with me? Didn’t think that I should be involved in the decision of what’s too soon for  _our_  relationship?” When Combeferre didn’t say anything, Grantaire pushed away from the table, standing and running a hand through his hair. “You  _always_  do this. You think you’re the only one capable of making a rational decision. But relationships are about conversations and feelings, not what  _you_  unilaterally think is best based on some pragmatic matrix of logical decision-making that only you can possibly comprehend.”

Though Combeferre closed his eyes against the onslaught of Grantaire’s words, growing in sharpness and acidity, he nonetheless nodded as if he agreed with every word. “I know that. And I’m sorry. And if you want me to leave, I’ll understand.”

“I don’t want you to leave, I want you to stay and talk about this kind of stuff with me!” Grantaire snapped. “Don’t you think I deserve even that?”

Combeferre shrugged helplessly. “I think you deserve the world,” he said softly. “And Im very sorry if this has somehow hurt you. I never intended it to. I’ve made no secret about wanting to take this slowly, and for me, that means not taking you to my parents’ for Christmas. But it’s not about you, and I hope you know that.”

Grantaire stared at him. “It’s as if you’ve missed the point of everything I just said. You know, maybe spending Christmas apart is exactly what we need to reevaluate things.” When Combeferre continued to stare down at table, Grantaire almost growled deep in his throat before stalking over to the Christmas tree, grabbing a small, wrapped package from underneath it and chucking it at Combeferre, who only just managed to catch it before it smashed into his glasses. “Merry Christmas.”

Combeferre stood slowly, clutching the present in his hands. “I really am sorry,” he said, one more time.

And then he was gone, and Grantaire sank to the floor next to the Christmas tree, dry-eyed. “Merry Christmas,” he repeated, talking to no one in particular. Then he stood, crossed to the kitchen table, grabbed the now-cold cup of coffee, and threw it in the trash before grabbing his phone and dialing. “Hey Mom,” he said, forcing himself to sound cheerful. “Change of plans. Looks like I’m going to be coming home for Christmas after all.”

* * *

 

As soon as the door opened to his parents’ house, Grantaire was pulled into a warm embrace from his mother, passed around to his sisters and his brothers-in-law, and even got an awkward shoulder punch from his father. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” he said, his voice muffled against his sister’s incredibly ugly sweater.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” his mom said affectionately, brushing past him on the way to the kitchen. “Want to come taste something for me?”

Grantaire pulled away from his sister and obediently followed his mom into the kitchen. “What was it you wanted me to taste?” he asked, trying to sneak a roll out of the basket.

His mom smacked his hand. “No sneaking food,” she admonished. “And I didn’t want you to taste anything. I trust my own taste buds far more than yours. I wanted to ask why we weren’t meeting your handsome, professor boyfriend.”

Sighing heavily, Grantaire leaned against the counter. “Probably because I’m not entirely sure that he’s still my boyfriend. We…kind of had a fight.”

“Around the holidays? Oh sweetie, that’s the worst.” She patted Grantaire’s cheek gently, ignoring the flour she accidentally smeared there. “I’m sure it’s not too serious of a fight, and once the holidays are over, you’ll both see that. You love him, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Grantaire said instantly. “That sure as hell hasn’t changed. But he hasn’t even told his parents about me. He  _never_  talks to me about these kinds of things, just tries to take care of everything himself, like I can’t be trusted. And you know how I feel about Christmas. I was really looking forward to spending it with him, to sleeping in together, and opening our presents together, and, you know, spending the afternoon in bed together—”

His mom tsk-ed loudly. “I don’t need any more details, dear, I understand. But you  _will_  work it out. If you still love him, and he still loves you, you’ll get through this.  _And_  you’ll get to meet his parents. And we’ll get to meet him.”

Grantaire snorted. “The question is whether he still loves me.”

There was a long pause before his mom nudged him gently with her elbow. “Peel some potatoes for me, won’t you?” she asked softly. “And then you can help me chop some carrots.”

* * *

 

Combeferre’s mother lingered in the doorway of his bedroom, frowning at him. “Is everything alright?” she asked quietly. “You’ve been distant ever since you got here yesterday.”

Combeferre looked up at her, biting back the things that instantly sprang to mind. It had been quiet at his parents’ house, just as it always was, his brother and sister-in-law not due to arrive until Christmas morning. And while normally he valued the quiet, loved curling up with the cat and a good book and a mug of his mother’s hot chocolate, he missed the warmth of Grantaire curled up next to him, missed the never-ending stream of commentary that Grantaire seemed to supply, singing random songs and saying nonsense as Combeferre did his best to ignore him. He missed Grantaire’s loudness and chaos and his things everywhere and the way that Grantaire didn’t fit into his life as neatly as everything else did, because Grantaire was messy and loud and everything Combeferre hadn’t even known he had needed.

He missed  _Grantaire_.

But he didn’t tell his mother any of this. Logic told him that she didn’t really need to know any of that. But she did need to have an answer, and for the first time, Combeferre wanted to be just a little bit honest about his feelings. So he said softly, “I’ve been seeing someone.”

His mother nodded. “Is it Enjolras?”

Combeferre had to smile at that. “No, not Enjolras. Another of our friends. Grantaire. Did I ever tell you anything about him?” She shook her head, and he shrugged. “It would take far too long to explain everything, but needless to say, I may have made a mistake. We had a bit of a fight.”

“Ah.” His mother shifted her weight awkwardly as she peered over her reading glasses at him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Of course his mother would instantly turn to what she could  _do_. It was one of the reasons why Combeferre was the way he was: his family had always focused far more on the doing, on the action, on solving problems instead of just talking about them. And maybe that was also why he had reacted the way he did to the thought of taking Grantaire home; it was a problem that needed solving, he evaluated both sides of it, realized which was most logical, and made the decision. But Grantaire wasn’t like that; Grantaire was warmth and emotion and sitting down and  _talking_  about things, and as different as it made them, Combeferre loved him for it regardless.

So he smiled and shook his head. “No. Thanks though.”

His mother nodded and closed his door behind her as she left, and Combeferre leaned back against his headboard, wondering how all of this had gone so wrong.

Brooding was not really his strong suit, and he knew that, because it made him feel like it did now: restless, as if he should be out there talking or doing something, as was his way. Instead, he was here, and it just felt wrong.

With a sigh, he rolled over to dig through his bag and find the book he had brought with him to read, but instead, his fingers closed on the present from Grantaire, and he pulled it out to stare down at the colorful paper and jaunty bow. He should wait and open it tomorrow, but right now, he was missing Grantaire so much that he didn’t really care.

So with trembling fingers, he pulled the wrapping paper off, revealing a small, old book, the peeling gold letters proclaiming it a collection of famous love letters. Combeferre traced over the title, a smile hovering on his lips. This was so  _Grantaire_.

And when he opened the book, he found it was even more like him than he would have first thought. Every love letter was annotated, highlighted, little notes scribbled into the margins, cartoons doodled in the empty spaces.

Grantaire used to do the same things to his textbooks.

It was how they had started this whole thing, for lack of a better way of putting it. Grantaire would hang out in his dorm room, being obnoxious as usual, scribbling all over his books and highlighting unimportant passages just to dick with him.

Combeferre had chalked it up to Grantaire being a dick, but Courfeyrac had been the one to politely inform him that it was Grantaire’s way of flirting. Combeferre had filed that information away and hadn’t acted on it, assuming Grantaire would move on before he got around to dealing with it properly.

And he had, at first, the way he had moved on from Enjolras eventually as well, but then at the party Courfeyrac had thrown when Combeferre got his first professorial appointment at a university, they had both had a few drinks, and one thing led to another and now, six months later, Combeferre should have been the happiest he had ever been.

In a way, he was, he supposed. Being with Grantaire had never been easy, but he didn’t necessarily  _want_  easy. He wanted what they had, and maybe it was selfish of him to not want to change it, but statistically speaking, looking at his own dating record and Grantaire’s…

He didn’t follow that train of thought, flushing at what Grantaire would have said to it, either rolling his eyes and kissing him gently and telling him that he was an idiot, that there are lies, damn lies, and statistics, or else he would have been furious, yelling at Combeferre, his face flushed red as he railed on Combeferre for relying too much on logic for things that were inherently illogical.

It was the main point of contention between them; while Enjolras and Grantaire had always argued cynicism versus progressive political action, Combeferre had enjoyed those arguments, enjoyed similar spars with Grantaire, testing his arguments. Instead, they had fought over Combeferre’s reliance on logic and Grantaire’s on emotion.

Combeferre shook his head, flipping through the book, pausing every now and then to read a letter, still smiling, even if it was a little sad. Then he got to the end, and there, on the last page, normally left blank, Grantaire had written a letter of his own.

It was simple, so simple, but Combeferre’s heart felt like it might burst as he read the six words that said everything at once. “Dear Combeferre, Merry Christmas. Love, R.”

And in that moment, Combeferre knew that he had made a monumental mistake.

* * *

 

The phone on Grantaire’s bedside table rang, and he reached out to answer it without opening his eyes. “‘Lo?” he said, face still pressed against his pillow.

“Hey, it’s me.”

At the sound of Combeferre’s voice, Grantaire sat straight up in bed. “Combeferre?”

“Yeah. Did I wake you? I didn’t think it was all that late.”

Grantaire rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock. It was before midnight, which probably made this the earliest Combeferre had ever known him to be in bed. “Um, yeah. My parents like us to go to bed early so we can get up early and open presents. They never really moved beyond the whole Santa-delivering-presents thing, and we play along for their sake.”

Combeferre said teasingly, “Right. For their sake.” He was quiet for a long moment before he said quietly, “I was calling because I didn’t want to leave things the way that we did.”

Running a hand through his hair, Grantaire sighed. “I don’t either, Ferre, but I also don’t really want to have this conversation over the phone. This is something we need to discuss in person.”

“I agree,” Combeferre said, a smile in his voice. “Which is why it would be great if you could some downstairs.”

Grantaire stared at his phone before jumping out of bed and running to the window, yanking the curtains aside to look down at the road. “Why in the world are you at my parents’ house?” he exclaimed, but Combeferre didn’t answer. “Damnit,” Grantaire swore, pocketing his phone and grabbing his robe, pulling it on over his pajamas and jamming his feet into his slippers before pounding down the stairs and heading outside. “Seriously, what the hell are you doing here?

Combeferre grinned at him, clicking something on his phone, the sound of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas is You” starting on his phone, and Grantaire rolled his eyes, leaning against the rail of his parents’ porch. “Really, Ferre? You came all the way here to play me a Mariah Carey song?”

Shaking his head, Combeferre grabbed a set of posters off the ground at his feet, and the breath seemed to catch in Grantaire’s throat. “Oh my  _God_ , you are  _not_  ripping off that scene from  _Love, Actually_ , are you?”

The grin on Combeferre’s face widened, and he held up the posters, the first one reading,  **I wanted you to know that I screwed up.**

Grantaire snorted. “Go on.”

**I thought I wasn’t ready,**

**for this, for you, for us.**

**I was wrong.**

Grantaire blinked, tears suddenly pricking in his eyes. “Combeferre,” he started softly, but Combeferre shook his head, moving on to the fourth poster.

**I love you**

**And Christmas is the time to spend with your loved ones.**

**Statistically, our relationship is doomed.**

Now Grantaire snorted again, but he didn’t say anything, waiting for Combeferre to continue.

**But statistically, we should probably all have died years ago.**

**And besides, statistics lie.**

**(As you’re so fond of telling me)**

Laughing, Grantaire shook his head. “I only tell you because you can always use reminding of that fact.”

**You gave me the best Christmas gift**

**but all I really want for Christmas is you.**

**(Also I told my mom about you**

**So I guess it’s kind of official now**

**Statistics be damned)**

**Merry Christmas**

The song finished on Combeferre’s cell phone, and for a moment, Grantaire just stared at Combeferre. Then he grinned, a real, honest grin, and told him, “You’re a complete ass.”

“I know,” Combeferre said, slightly chagrined.

Grantaire just laughed and ran down the porch steps, grabbing Combeferre and kissing him, the posters falling out of Combeferre’s hands so that he could wrap his arms around Grantaire’s waist, holding him close, holding him desperately, kissing him fiercely, trying to convey in the kiss everything he hadn’t already shown him. Grantaire clung to him just as desperately, his arms around Combeferre’s neck, holding on as if they would never let go.

As they kissed, it began to snow, and Grantaire pulled back slightly, laughing delightedly, reaching out to catch a snowflake on his tongue. “It’s snowing!” he said. “Almost like a Christmas miracle.”

Combeferre laughed as well, and glanced down at his watch. “It  _is_  a Christmas miracle,” he agreed, “since it is just now Christmas.” He pulled Grantaire back to him, kissing him softly. “Merry Christmas, Grantaire.”

“Merry Christmas, Combeferre,” Grantaire returned, his smile crooked but genuine.

Combeferre couldn’t help but kiss him again. “I have a present for you,” he said, nodding at his bag, which he had set on Grantaire’s parents’ porch before he had called him. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow, when we open presents with your parents?”

There was a question in Combeferre’s tone, a question about whether Grantaire still wanted him here, still wanted to spend Christmas with him, and Grantaire answered it by kissing him again. “It’ll be pretty hard to top the present you just gave me,” he said, grinning again, “but I look forward to watching you try.”

He grabbed Combeferre’s hand, linking their fingers together, and led him inside, the snow still falling gently. When they were in Grantaire’s room, curled up on the bed, Grantaire turned to Combeferre and kissed him once more. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered one last time before he dropped off to sleep.

Combeferre kissed his forehead and pulled him closer. “Merry Christmas.”


End file.
